Guilty Feet And
by amythis
Summary: An alternate ending to Season Three's "Wedding Bells."


The whole time I'm rubbing her foot, I've got that song going through my head. By Wham! from a couple years ago. Sam used to play it till it drove me crazy, so I of course still have it memorized.

Angela set me off by saying, "These feet will never dance again." Not that her feet are guilty. Or are they?

No, I know, she only danced with Geoffrey because I practically pushed her into his arms. I got scared. And I mean what I'm saying now, about us both seeing other people. Don't I?

Then she sighs, "Oh, Tony, you're so good!"

And it's completely innocent, except what am I doing here? It's like when I danced with her at the wedding, before Geoffrey did. I was holding her close, slow-dancing, and I didn't even notice the band was on a break till Sam told me.

I always find all these ways to touch her, to do things for her. But I'm also always pulling away. Earlier today, at the wedding, I daydreamed about us getting married. But then when I heard that older couple at the reception, Fred and Ginger, laugh at the idea of a woman marrying her housekeeper, I remembered who and what I am.

I'm so tempted to pull away again. Just stop the massage before I lead her or myself on again.

But what if I keep going? It's just a foot massage, right? So I say, "Thank you," and keep rubbing.

After awhile, I let myself stray up to her ankle. That's part of the foot, right?

"Will these legs ever dance again?" I ask, as I drift onto her lower calf.

She draws in her breath in surprise and then sighs happily. "Well, if you revive my feet, then I guess my legs will have to come along for the ride. I mean the dance."

"Then I'd better revive them, too."

"Yes," she breathes. And then she lies back on the couch. God, she's beautiful! She's in one of what I think of as the Angela colors, in this case the pale pink of her matron of honor dress, kind of like the dress she wore for our anniversary dinner a few months ago, when I ended up blurting out "I love you" in the hospital.

I, you know, I guess I love her in some sense. I mean, we're like family and she's my best friend. But there's also this thing between us. I try not to look at it too closely, because she's my boss, too. And we're so different.

Right now, I can't look at her above the knee. I can't look at the way her hair surrounds her face like the sun's rays, like a halo.

I try to concentrate on her calf. Should I do both legs? Well, one at a time I guess.

I try to find the right pressure points, and the little murmurs she makes guide me. I'm glad the kids aren't home. Sam's at a daughter-of-the-groom slumber party Marci's throwing. And Jonathan is at his friend Steven's. That's the kid who suggested that Jonathan try to marry me off to Angela so I'll never leave. I told Jonathan that I don't need to be married to his mom for me to stick around. I hope to be here for a long time.

But as what? Her housekeeper? Don't get me wrong, I love this job more than I ever imagined I could, the work itself and this house, this home. But what happens when Sam goes off to college someday, as I hope she will? One of my reasons for moving here was to make a better life for my daughter. Well, I guess I'll keep staying here as long as Angela needs me, and not just as a masseur.

I'm talking less now, too lost in thought. And it doesn't feel right to encourage her to date Geoffrey while I'm doing this. "Does that feel good?" I can't help asking.

"Very."

"Do you want me to do the other leg or keep going on this one?"

"Keep going." Her voice is breathy and I'm doing my best to not get turned on. Am I turning her on? Or is this nonsexual pleasure? And do I want to turn her on? Does she want me to turn her on?

I keep going. I'm careful with the knee. As a former athlete, I'm very aware of how fragile joints can be. And also, it's sort of a border. Am I ready to cross over to the thigh?

Her legs are so smooth, the thighs even more than the calves. (I mean, I'm assuming it's the same for the left as for the right.)

I've been pushing up the hem of her dress as I go along, revealing more and more of her long leg as I go along.

"Oh, Tony, you're so good!" This time it's more of a cry than a sigh.

"Yeah?" My own voice is husky. "I feel more bad than good right now."

"Do you mean good-bad?" she says in this voice that I haven't heard since the morning after our drunken kiss, when I said if we ever lost each other as friends, I'd want her to remember it and she would. And she said, "So would you." And I totally believed her. We could've gone upstairs and blown each other's minds, but we didn't. Even when we were alone in a motel room in one set of pajamas a few months later, we didn't.

"What do you mean by good-bad?" I find myself asking.

"When you feel bad-bad, it doesn't feel good to be bad."

"Like guilt?" I ask, rubbing the back of her thigh.

"Yes. But good-bad is naughty in a fun way."

"Yeah. I guess you could say massaging my boss's thigh is naughty. Or at least taboo."

...

Suddenly I have a Sade song going through my head:

"There's a quiet storm

And it never felt this hot before

Giving me something that's taboo.

Sometimes I think you're just too good for me."

Tony is so sweet, too sweet, the sweetest taboo. I know, there's no moral or legal reason why we shouldn't be together. Yes, he's my employee, but that's not exactly "forbidden love." I don't care what people like Isabel's cousins say. But sometimes it feels like it's Tony himself who makes a romance between us forbidden.

So why isn't he stopping this time? Pulling away? I've gotten so used to him being the voice of reason. He's not made of ice. Surely massaging my leg, especially this high up, must get to him. I remember what he was like that rainy night in that motel.

And, yes, my feet ached from dancing earlier, but it's not like I was at a hoedown or something equally strenuous. My thighs don't ache. Well, not in that sense.

I bite my lip. Something else is starting to ache, ache for Tony. I can't think about that. I always try so hard not to let my mind go in that direction. But I love how his hands feel, so confident yet gentle, so strong and sweet.

And I'm sure that Tony won't take it that far. Will he?

"Tell me when to stop, Angela." His voice is hoarse.

"Do you mean stop in duration or stop in location?"

"Either. Both."

"Maybe I don't want you to stop." I can't believe I said that! But he did ask.

"Well, I'd have to stop for breakfast. I mean, I can't do this indefinitely."

"Yes, your hands would get tired."

"Yeah. Of course, then I guess you could give me a hand massage."

"Yes." And then I reach down and take one of his hands. I caress it and then press the pressure points.

"Mmm, you're good, Angela."

"Well, bad-good."

He chuckles. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'll show you." And then, hardly believing my own daring, I guide that hand to the very top of my thigh.

"Mmm, it's like silk, or rose petals. Your skin is so soft and delicate here."

"Thank you. But this is silk." I guide that hand over to my pink silk panties.

"Nice. But not as soft." And then those fingers wander back and forth between the cloth and the skin, until the sensation blurs.

"Tony!" I cry.

"Do you want this part to dance, Angela?"

"Yes!"

So he slides my panties off. "You want me to massage you here, Angela?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Let me just wash my hands, since I've been touching your feet. I'll be right back, I swear."

He's breaking the mood again. But I hope this time he doesn't turn sensible.

...

In the downstairs bathroom, after I wash my hands, I splash water on my face. What am I doing? That's my boss waiting for me on the couch out there. Even if I keep my underwear on, we have crossed a line like we never have before, after dancing around this for over two years.

I could go back out there and say, "I'm sorry, this is crazy. We can't do this. We're supposed to be seeing other people. Not making out with each other in our living room." But that would be so cruel. I can't do that to her. When I pushed her away all those times before, it wasn't after getting a glimpse of her, let's call it her jewel box. And I'm not that much of a tease.

Except, isn't she supposed to be dating Geoffrey? I mean, she's got an actual date scheduled. That'd be kind of a rotten thing to do to him, too. I mean, I don't know him, but he seems like a nice guy, and I let him think there was nothing between me and Angela. OK, it's not like they're getting married, but maybe there's that potential. Is that fair to either of them to do this, when I can't make Angela any promises for the future?

And what about me? If I go out and give Angela the most intimate of massages, I'm gonna want something more. And maybe I'm not supposed to have that.

She may have guilty feet, but I've got guilty hands. This is my fault, all of this. I'll tell her that. She'll understand. She always does.

But when I return, she's not on the couch. She's on the phone, her back to me. "Yes, Geoffrey. I understand."

Wow, she must've felt guilty! Even though he's not even her boyfriend. She must've called him the minute I left the room, since I didn't hear the phone ring. She could've first had the decency to tell me she changed her mind, and maybe not called from the living room. As Sam could tell you, there's more than one phone in this house.

"Well, thank you. You're a very nice guy and I wish you the best, but I just don't want to lead you on. I'm not looking for a relationship right now. You, too. Goodnight."

After she hangs up, I say, "So no dinner and a Broadway show?"

She jumps a little as if I've startled her, but then she turns and smiles. "No. Not with Geoffrey anyway."

"Too bad."

"For me or him?"

"For him. You're not looking for a relationship."

"Right."

"So are you looking for fooling around?"

She comes over to me and puts her arms around me, like she's dancing to silent music. "I'm not looking for a relationship because I already have one."

"Oh. Then maybe you shouldn't see other people."

"That's what I was thinking."

I put my arms around her and start swaying with her. "Then maybe I shouldn't either."

"Have you got a relationship, Tony?"

"Angela, I've got a beautiful if bizarre relationship."

I feel her smile against my cheek. "Does this relationship of yours include fooling around?"

"It didn't used to, but I think it could."

"So do I," she says, and then she hikes up her dress with one hand and guides me under with her other hand.

...

It feels like Tony and I are dancing to different songs in our heads, but ones that blend surprisingly well.


End file.
